Pharaoh

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Barely a few minutes had passed before it broke in all its fury. The surface of the desert was stripped bare by the violence of the wind and the cloud of dust enveloped everything, eliminating the sky and the earth, the stones and the hills. Alone, the moon managed to keep a vague, orange glow alive in the western half of the sky, but there was no one in the wide, deserted expanse to see it.

  Every now and then, Blake held Sarah tighter to him, as if to transfer the will to resist and survive this challenge, or perhaps to take courage from her instead.

  He could hear a sound like hail battering the big rock because the wind was so strong it was raising thousands of tiny pieces of stone and dashing them against it. The words of Elijah came to him: ‘And there came to pass a wind so powerful as to shake the mountains and to split the stones . . .’ This was the hell of the Paran desert, a place where only prophets guided by the hand of God dared to venture.

  The shrill whistling went on and on. The incessant rattling of stones against the boulder and the complete darkness that surrounded them made them lose all sense of time. He tried to concentrate on Sarah’s body, on the beating of her heart; tried to overcome the terrible mental strain and the increasing sense of being suffocated. Now the dust was everywhere, covering every millimetre of their skin, passing through their clothes as if it were water, but their nostrils and lungs were safe for now and they knew that although breathing was difficult it wasn’t impossible.

  The only question he asked himself was how long they would be able to hold on in these dreadful conditions. He was fully aware that, in any case, it would only be a simple question of time. Sooner or later, the humidity from their breathing would form a paste with the tiny particles of dust coating the Gore-Tex. And at that point, they would have to choose between suffocating because of lack of oxygen or because of the dust. How long would it be until nature, in all her awful might, dealt the final blow to crush them like insects in the dust?

  The grip of tension and fatigue began to loosen as they drifted into a semi-conscious state. Blake realized that he had let go of Sarah’s body, but something was telling him that the force of the storm had let up slightly. Even the wind needed time to gather its forces again.

  He stood up and untied the handkerchiefs round his neck, pulling his head free of the sack. A ghostly apparition met his eyes: a dark mass, enormous and luminescent, casting forth two pale milky lights. In the background, a continuous rhythmic sound like slow wheezing.

  He took a better look and managed to focus on the shape behind the haloes of light penetrating the powdery thickness of the night’s atmosphere. It looked almost like a submarine sitting on the bottom of the ocean but was, in fact, a desert bus, one of those strange vehicles that managed to carry as many as fifty passengers from Damascus to Jeddah, from Oman to Baghdad along the most frightful tracks. Vehicles that were sealed like spacecraft with powerful filters and air conditioning.

  He shook his companion, who seemed to be almost unconscious, and freed her head.

  ‘Sarah! Sarah, get up for Christ’s sake! We’re saved! Look! Look in front of you!’

  Sarah sat up and sheltered her face with her hand, while Blake started walking towards the headlights.

  ‘Hey! Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Help! We got lost in the sandstorm. Help us!’

  At that moment men bearing arms got out of the vehicle and one of them turned Blake’s way, pointing his gun towards the noise he thought he had heard. Blake was so overwhelmed by the thought of being saved that he didn’t realize what peril they were in. As he started shouting, though, he was thrown to the ground.

  ‘Shut up!’ a voice hissed into his ear. ‘Look! They’re armed!’

  The man pointing his gun came towards them a bit, waving his torch back and forth through the thick dust. But Blake and Sarah, flattened as they were on the ground and covered with dust from head to foot, were totally camouflaged. The man kept peering into the gloom for a long while, listening hard. Then, reassured, he went back to the bus.

  Three or four men wearing keffiyehs wound tightly round their heads and carrying machine guns came out of the rear door of the bus and took up positions at the four corners of the vehicle. Two more seemed to be checking the wheels.

  ‘But they might be—’ protested Blake.

  ‘We can’t risk it. They certainly aren’t Israelis. Let’s go back to our shelter. What time is it?’

  Blake cleaned the face of his watch. ‘It’s just past midnight. Six more hours before the sun comes up.’

  As they made their way back to the stone, they felt the wind start to rise again, but it seemed to have already spent the worst of its strength.

  Then new shapes, seemingly coming from nowhere, were caught in the beams of the headlights.

  ‘Camels,’ said Sarah. ‘How the heck did they get here in this storm?’

  ‘The Bedouins,’ muttered Blake. ‘They can move through the desert like fish in water. Can you see anything?’

  ‘Yes, I can. Well, well. What do you know. Here come some more, and they’re all armed to the teeth. It looks like some kind of arranged meeting. Amazing.’

  ‘They could have got here with their eyes closed,’ said Blake. ‘After spending thousands of years in the desert, they’ve developed an incredible sense of direction. In weather like this, they can move about like ghosts, almost invisible.’

  One of the men opened the rear door of the bus and let the newcomers in. They were all carrying machine guns. When the last one had entered, the bus started off again and disappeared shortly afterwards, going north, into the clouds of dust.

  Blake and Sarah crouched down again behind the pile of stones, once more covered their heads with their packs and remained motionless beneath the fury of the storm. The lack of oxygen, their fatigue and their disappointment following the brief thrill of thinking they were about to be saved combined to take them into a sort of stupor in which they were neither sleeping nor waking. The only thing they felt was the keen cold that cut through to their bones and the fine dust that was starting to get inside the packs, forming a paste round their mouths and up their noses.

  Suddenly Blake lifted his head to the west.

  ‘What is it?’ Sarah managed to mumble when she felt his movement.

  ‘Cordite,’ said Blake. ‘Smell that stuff in the air? That’s the smell of war.’

  Blake loosened the pack on his head for a moment and listened, and for a few moments it seemed that the wind carried the roll of distant thunder.

  Dawn arrived. They took their packs off their heads and pulled themselves into a sitting position, leaning against the pile of stones. The wind continued to blow strongly, but the worst was over. The air was still thick, as if there was a dense mist over the desert, but towards the east they could just make out a watery lightness in the distance.

  ‘Ready to get going again?’ asked Blake.

  Sarah nodded. ‘We haven’t got much choice, have we? If we stay here, we’ll die. We have to get to the track going south. Sooner or later, we’ll find something. If our strength doesn’t fail us.’

  They collected their things, put them in their packs and started off again. They dragged on wearily for hours until they were about to drop from exhaustion, when Blake saw a low concrete block to his left. The roof was made of corrugated iron and the doors and windows were half wrecked.

  He entered and looked around. There was dust everywhere but there was a small room where the wind hadn’t done quite so much damage. Here they sat on the floor to drink what water they had left and to eat two cereal bars, their last. The packets of dried figs and dates had been open and the fruit was completely coated with dust.

  They rested for half an hour and then continued on the long way to Beer Menuha. Hour after hour they walked, buffeted by the wind, protecting themselves as best they could and resting when they felt their energy flagging. They reached the Beer Menuha fork in the late afternoon and took the road to Yotvata.

  Before very long, a v
an carrying goats stopped and gave them a ride to Yotvata. It was dark and they managed to find a room without any trouble. The owner, a man in his sixties, regarded them with suspicion. They looked liked ghosts with white dust all over their bodies, on their clothes, in their hair, their eyelashes and eyebrows. And their faces were scratched and bleeding.

  ‘We’re tourists,’ explained Blake. ‘We had no idea there would be a storm and our car broke down around Beer Menuha. We’ve been walking for hours and hours through the sandstorm.’

  ‘I see,’ said the man. ‘You must be nearly dead.’

  ‘And we are hungry,’ said Blake. ‘Is there anything we can have sent to our room now?’

  ‘Not very much, I’m afraid. The government has requisitioned everything for the troops at the front and there’s not much left. But I think we can manage some hummus and tuna sandwiches and a couple of cool beers.’

  ‘The front?’ asked Blake. ‘We’ve been in the desert for so long . . . we hadn’t heard . . .’

  ‘There’s a war going on,’ said the innkeeper, ‘and, as usual, we are on our own, nobody bothers to help us . . . If you could just give me your passports.’

  ‘We lost everything in the storm,’ said Blake. ‘If you like, we can write our names and details and so on, so you won’t have a problem if anyone checks.’

  The man looked worried for a moment, then he nodded. Sarah watched as Blake wrote out a false name and particulars so she could do the same.

  They went up to their room as Mr and Mrs Randall, washed, dusted off their clothes as best they could and wolfed down the sandwiches that the innkeeper sent up.

  When they had finished, Sarah collapsed into bed. However, Blake went out and walked about in the twilight until he found a taxi stand where there were two cars parked.

  ‘I have to leave tonight,’ he said to one of the drivers. ‘For Eilat. Can you be in front of the news kiosk at three o’clock in the morning?’

  The man, an Ethiopian Falasha, agreed and Blake returned to the inn. No one was on the streets but, every now and then, he saw military patrols passing in their vehicles.

  He found Sarah fast asleep with the light on. She hadn’t even had the strength to turn it off. He set the alarm on his watch, turned out the light and sank into oblivion.

  In the darkness, he felt Sarah’s hand reaching for him and he kissed her before falling back to sleep again.

  At 2.45 a.m. he was awoken by the shrill buzz of the watch going off and, still dead tired and groggy from lack of sleep, he roused Sarah, who sat up in alarm.

  ‘What is it? What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re leaving. I don’t trust anyone here. And I don’t think the innkeeper trusts us either. We don’t want to have a nasty surprise at dawn. There’s a taxi coming to get us in quarter of an hour. Get ready.’

  Blake left a fifty-dollar bill in the room and went down the fire escape, followed by Sarah. They crept along slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The wind was still strong and the city was wrapped in a haze.

  Blake and Sarah slipped behind the inn and headed for the main street, which was lined with acacia and mimosa trees.

  They saw the news kiosk at the first crossing and, shortly after, the lights of an approaching car.

  ‘The taxi,’ said Blake. ‘We’re OK.’

  The Falasha had them get in, with Blake in front and the girl behind, and set off. They passed Shamar, Elipaz, Beer Ora and reached Eilat when it was still dark. Blake told the driver to go to the Egyptian border.

  ‘I just need you to get us across the border,’ he told him. ‘Then we can manage on our own.’

  The Falasha nodded and drove to the passport control at the border with Egypt.

  ‘Have you got an Egyptian visa?’ Blake asked Sarah.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You can get one here. I tore the page with “persona non grata” out of my passport. I hope they don’t start counting the pages and that they haven’t got me on their wanted list.’

  ‘And if they have?’

  ‘The worst thing that can happen is they won’t let us in. Then we’ll have to get a ship to the Emirates.’

  Sarah got out and went to the automatic booth to get three passport photos which were so awful she didn’t even recognize herself. She started to fill in the forms. Blake showed his visa to a sleepy border guard with a yellow, nicotine-stained moustache. He stamped the passport without asking any questions.

  Blake breathed a deep sigh of relief, got in and waited for Sarah, then asked the Falasha to take them to the bus station. The place was still deserted and the wind was raising litter and sheets of newspaper that were strewn all over the dusty ground. He took the agreed fifty dollars out of his wallet and shook the man’s hand.

  ‘Goodbye, my friend, and thanks. I’d give you more but I still have a long way to go and it’s likely to be difficult. Shalom.’

  ‘Shalom,’ answered the Falasha, looking at him for a moment with his big, liquid, African eyes. Then he got back into his car and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  The ticket office opened after a while and Blake bought two tickets for Cairo, then got two coffees and some sesame-seed cookies and went to sit beside Sarah.

  ‘We’re nearly home,’ he said. ‘If we make it to Cairo, we can go to the embassy. There’ll be someone there who can help us.’

  ‘If we make it to the embassy, that’ll be the end of our troubles,’ said Sarah. ‘And someone had better give me an explanation of what happened at Ras Udash. Who the hell thought they could play a practical joke like that and get away with it?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Blake. ‘I can’t explain it.’

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out a somewhat squashed packet of Marlboros. The cigarettes were all broken except one. He put it in his mouth and lit it, breathing in luxuriously.

  ‘Don’t you have enough crap in your lungs without that?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘It helps me relax,’ said Blake. ‘I feel like the hero in an action movie who’s lost his stunt man. I ache all over. Even my nails and hair ache.’

  Sarah looked at him. His face was all twisted up into what was trying to be a smile, but his expression couldn’t disguise an anxiety that wasn’t due to fatigue or physical pain. Just when safety was in sight, William Blake felt that it might have been better for all mankind if he and his companion had suffocated to death in the dust of the Paran desert.

  ‘What’re we going to do with this secret?’ asked Sarah, reading his thoughts.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blake. ‘At the moment, I can’t believe that what happened was real. It seems like I dreamed it all.’

  ‘But when you wake up . . .’

  ‘Then I’ll decide. If I were sure I could stop this war by revealing what I’ve seen, by revealing that there are no “Chosen People” anywhere, I’d do it in a flash.’

  ‘Maybe you should do it anyway. Truth must out, don’t you think?’

  Blake shook his head. ‘The truth isn’t always believed. When it comes down to it, silence may be the only possible option.’

  He was interrupted by the sound of the bus stopping under the shelter. They were first on and went to sit at the rear. Shortly after, they were followed by other small groups of people who boarded the bus in dribs and drabs: women carrying heavy bags and men with cartons of American cigarettes that they had probably bought in Aqaba.

  At last, the engine started with a jolt and the bus set off, gradually building speed. Rocked by the movement and the noise of the engine, and weary beyond words, Sarah leaned her head on his shoulder and fell into a deep sleep. Blake tried to stay awake, but he too gradually gave in to fatigue and the warmth of Sarah’s body.

  He woke up when the bus stopped unexpectedly and thought that the driver must be picking up a few things. He was about to go back to sleep when he felt something hard poking into his shoulder. Suddenly fully awake, he saw a man standing in front of him, pointing a m
achine gun.

  13

  WILLIAM BLAKE WOKE SARAH, who was still fast asleep. He pretended not to understand the two Egyptian soldiers who were ordering them to get out.

  Extremely agitated, the higher-ranking of the two yelled something in Arabic, forcing them to get up, while his companion shoved them with the butt of his machine gun down the aisle of the bus, as the rest of the passengers looked on in amazement.

  Once outside, Blake could see that the bus had been stopped by an army Jeep parked sideways across the middle of the road.

  The soldiers searched them, lingering longer than necessary when it came to frisking Sarah, then had them get into the back of the Jeep and took off on a road heading towards the interior. In the meantime, the bus had started up with a faltering wheeze and began proceeding west, soon disappearing from sight.

  ‘I can’t believe it . . . None of this makes sense,’ Sarah started to say, but Blake shushed her, because their escorts were speaking to each other and he didn’t want to miss what was being said.

  Sarah noticed that Blake’s face darkened as he listened to the soldiers’ voices, their words interspersed with sinister bouts of giggling.

  ‘Can you understand what they’re saying?’

  Blake nodded yes.

  ‘Bad news?’

  Blake nodded again, whispering, ‘They’ve got orders to take us to a military prison, where we will be interrogated and tried – no doubt a summary trial. But first they intend to have a little fun with you, both of them, the officer first, naturally.’

  Sarah turned pale with impotent anger.

  Blake held her hand tightly. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s best that we’re prepared.’

  The soldier ordered them to be quiet, but Blake kept on talking, pretending not to have understood a word, at which point the bully backhanded him, splitting open his upper lip.

  Blake recoiled in pain, fumbling in his jacket pockets for a handkerchief to stop the blood, which was oozing into his mouth. Exhausted and unarmed as he was, he was trying to think of something he could do to get them out of this jam. As he removed a package of Kleenex from the inside pocket, he felt two fountain pen caps sticking out beside it. In actuality, one of them, despite the resemblance, wasn’t really a pen at all, but rather an archaeological scalpel. He slipped it out and put it into his outside pocket, removing the protective cap as soon as the soldier had turned around to say something to his superior.